


Adversity

by Speckofoursource



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 05 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speckofoursource/pseuds/Speckofoursource
Summary: Brief little snap shots of the moments I fancy may have occurred off-screen from Star Wars: The Clone Wars, Season 5, Episodes 17 through 20.





	Adversity

He paced ahead of her, cowled and cloaked, a mantle of foreboding. She followed, glaring at the back of his hood, silently willing him to sense it too. The connection between them was steadfast. He did not slow or turn his head, but he did grunt her name, more in command than reassurance.

“Ahsoka.” Like a whip crack. _Focus. Be still._

But she seized the opening and voiced her conviction. “Master, this is _wrong_.” Accusation on 'Master'. Emphasis on 'wrong'. 

At one time, Anakin Skywalker would have spun on his heel to argue, not being much older than his own apprentice. But he was no longer an inexperienced teacher. Nearly two standard years, a galactic war, and many mistakes as Ahsoka’s mentor had crowned him with some hard-earned wisdom. His was a collected response: “Remember your place.”

Ahsoka grimaced, watching his boots continue to cast purposeful strides ahead of her in the polished marble halls. Once, Ahsoka Tano would have snipped a hasty rejoinder to this admonition. But she was no longer a green padawan, and her experience as Anakin’s apprentice had yielded what temple training thus far had not: the ability to hold her tongue. 

Apprehension coiled in her belly. It wasn’t simply that they were storming a Republic Senator’s personal quarters uninvited, to appeal for favor in a matter now beyond their jurisdiction. She perceived that something was amiss: the force was practically thrumming. No doubt he felt it, too. She decided to recall her place after all: A step behind and to the side, sedately pursuing in his wake: the ‘path follower’. After all, she thought wryly, it had proven at times the best position from which to rescue _him_ \- especially whenever he ignored that proverbial _bad feeling_. 

They ascended the steps to the anteroom, but Anakin brushed past the gleaming protocol droid and airily waved the portal open with one hand. Sharp brown eyes snapped to them in astonishment. “An-”

The tall Jedi jerked his cowl back and bowed his head in formal greeting. “Senator Amidala.”

The droid bristled, tottering into the space and imploring the intruders to retreat to the anteroom. Anakin deftly avoided it, approaching her without invitation. 

Padme scowled at him, gesturing toward her guests with a sweep of one arm. “Master Skywalker. I _am_ engaged in…”

Ahsoka lowered her eyes apologetically while her Master cut in. “My Lady, forgive my intrusion. I insist you accompany me at once.”

The senator’s mouth thinned into a most displeased line, and after a span of three measured breaths, she was on her feet and begging the pardon of her company. Had she been three standard years younger, she might have refused or ignored him. But married life had cultivated some grace in her, like a priceless pearl, crushed into merciless existence by the pressures of its secrecy - and its _demands._

The panel hissed closed and Anakin had her arm, ushering her to the empty dining hall. Padme spared a glance of query at the Togruta on their heels, but neither of them spoke. Once the three had reached sufficient privacy, Anakin rounded on the senator, speaking low and urgently.

“There was a bombing at the temple. We have begun our investigation and are gathering intel on an Abyssin technician and his wife.”

Padme Amidala had already heard of it. “It’s terrible. But I thought you were off-world.”

Ahsoka nodded. “Cato-Neimoidia. But we were summoned here right away.”

The senator shook her head. “This is a Jedi matter. I should not be involved…”

“Letta Turmond is now in custody of the Republic military.” Anakin interjected. “Admiral Tarkin just informed us it is a _Senate_ matter now.”

Padme leered at him, quickly onto his scheme. “The Chancellor…”

But the Jedi Master leaned close. “Turmond must answer for this, my Lady. Jedi were killed. I expect you can champion our cause.”

Padme huffed. “Even if she is guilty, Anakin, this is wrong.” 

Ahsoka shot her Master an ironic expression that he flat out ignored. One corner of his mouth quirked back, whether conveying regret or amusement the padawan couldn’t determine.

“Senator, I would be most _obliged_ to you.” 

\----

The hem of his cloak snapped at his heels as he stalked the corridor alone. The brisk sound of his steps echoed ahead of him, heralding his return to her threshold. He leapt up the treads, startling the housekeeping droid, which buzzed at him in an affronted manner.

He pried the door open with a flick of the wrist, pistons popping, and allowed himself into the small office beyond where he sensed her presence. “Padme.”

She was perched at her desk, perusing a holo screen. Her hair was down, the dark curls cascading over her shoulders. These were swept like a swirling tide to one side as she turned her warm eyes to him. “Must you always assault my entry portal?” she teased.

But on seeing him, her smile faded abruptly. He unveiled himself, and she saw the lines of his face were drawn. “What’s happened?” she demanded, her belly feeling taut. 

He sank slowly onto the wide settee across from her, and trained his eyes on hers. He spoke as if he were chewing glass. “Ahsoka. She’s been indicted for acts of treason against the Republic.”

They exchanged hushed whispers briefly, the senator generally posing shocked questions and the Jedi generally submitting solemn answers. The cleaning droid, which had been re-tracing his filthy steps, was now agitatedly picking at his boots. Anakin nudged it away with one toe. 

“She wasn’t on Coruscant when it happened!” Padme finally exclaimed, incredulous. “The Council summoned you two to investigate for that reason!” She was standing now, arms braced against the bureau.

Anakin sighed and leaned forward onto his knees. “I must find her before someone else does,” he rasped.

Padme composed herself for a moment and straightened. “Perhaps Obi-Wan can help us.”

But this suggestion was met with a steely glare from her husband, and Padme wilted when she realized her error. Once revered Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi had recently forfeited young Skywalker’s trust for a solo mission in which he had staged his own death. Anakin had been raw with the pain of his Master’s alleged murder for days, a pain only rivaled by his intense resentment after the truth had finally been revealed to him. 

His expression softened slightly. “Obi-Wan did enough. He is the only reason the Council has allowed me to pursue Ahsoka.”

A defeated breath escaped her and she scrambled to gather her thoughts. Anakin’s eyes were wild, and there were shadows beneath them. It struck her that he had been plagued by unrelenting distress for a very long while. She approached him cautiously, like a wounded animal about to bolt.

“You haven’t rested,” she observed softly, sitting down beside him. He shrugged one shoulder absently.

“She asked me to trust her,” he murmured instead. 

“And do you?” his wife asked gently, placing a hand on his thigh. 

“With my life,” he said simply, angling his face toward hers. “I will make this right.”

\----

His ‘saber hilt slapped against his thigh in rhythm with his swift gait. Its weight was familiar and comforting, anchoring him in the turbulence surging without and within. He marched up to the familiar foyer and clenched a fist, wrenching the abused panel aside. This time it crumpled slightly in one corner and hung ajar.

The silver-plated staff droid jerked at his ardent entrance, sparking small refractions of light along the wall as it fled away to it’s mistress’ bedchamber.

He could hear his heart in his throat when he called out for her.

Padme emerged from the hall almost immediately, clutching a velvet dressing gown close around her. Panic was alight in her bloodshot eyes.

“Ahsoka’s been turned over to the Republic for trial. They’ve expelled her from the Order!” His voice cracked as he spat the words, not bothering with preamble. 

The frazzled senator could only stare in disbelief at her husband, who began to tread an anxious circuit upon the carpet. 

“The Council determined their verdict long before we arrived to the Chamber!” he growled. “But I know she is innocent!”

His young Padawan, barely sixteen standard, devoted to the peace and selfless service of the galaxy - the apprentice he had not sought out, who was thrust under his wing and tutelage, only to be torn away from him on the brink of her Knighthood - was now suspected of terrorism. Little Ahsoka Tano - the Togruta he swore an oath to teach and protect, the young Jedi he himself captured and turned over to the unscrupulous authorities - was now accused of murder. 

“If she is convicted, she could be executed,” Padme whispered slowly as the terrible realization dawned. 

The Jedi suddenly seized her by the shoulders, his arms trembling with nervous energy. “You can defend her,” he said decisively. “Please, you must represent her before the Senate!” 

Padme blinked at this entreaty, initially startled. Ahsoka’s life was in danger. How many times had the young apprentice rescued her? Then the sickening thought: how often had Ahsoka rescued her husband? Ahsoka needed her now. Her husband needed her now. “I can,” she replied. “I will.”

\----

Padme Amidala approached the glassy rise to her vestibule, the glow of success still warm in her cheeks. She was spent but satisfied, her relief over Ahsoka’s acquittal having sustained her through the long morning. She had managed to locate some food for a late breakfast, and happily considered the prospect of a bath.

She paused at the security console outside her quarters, only to observe a gaping aperture where the panel had once been. Brows raised, she slipped through the opening, groping in her skirts for the blaster concealed on her thigh. 

But she had no need of it, because Anakin Skywalker was seated there upon her Chandrilan silk sofa, his back to her and his gaze out the viewport on the sunny city where a grid of air traffic crossed mesmerizing lines across the horizon. She glanced back at the portal. 

“Anakin…” she began, inclined to lecture him on taxpayer maintenance expenses, but she caught sight of something dangling from his prosthetic hand, and thought better of it. 

“My love?” Being acquainted with her husband’s talents, she knew he was aware of her presence, but he chose not to acknowledge her. The food in her belly suddenly turned sour. She came near tentatively and peered over his tabard-clad shoulder, glimpsing a knotted thread of colorful beads. She recognized the various Jedi markers for trial, for endurance, for other noteworthy accomplishments. It was a sacred symbol of journey to members of the Order, three strands that bound the master, the student, the force: the learner’s plait. 

It was Ahsoka’s braid.

She knelt at his feet, taking his cold, surrogate arm into her hands and touching the precious strand. “What does this mean?” she asked. When he did not answer, she lifted her face and regarded not the desperate, earnest blue eyes she beheld the day before, but the strangely foreign scrutiny of a man she did not know. 

“Anakin,” she stressed once more, grasping at the the limb that had been lost, willing her husband to resurface. “Speak to me.”

It was a long moment, but when he did speak, it was the dismayed voice of a broken being. 

“She left.”

Padme did not understand his words, but she hadn’t opportunity to consider them, for as soon as he spoke he had drawn her up into his arms and had buried his face in her hair, dropping the braid on the settee, saying nothing more.

His face, when he at last had lifted it, did not betray any emotion. He simply carried her, a solemn saunter to the bedchamber, but his breath exposed his longing for the comfort a wife could give. And she in turn sought to give it, as a means to resurrect the man that she loved, drowning in the despair of war-torn worlds, the hopelessness of unchecked evils, the torment of betrayals. If his love for her were strong enough to save her life, could her love for him not reciprocate? And so, adversity would prove to be the fertile ground on which their hopes would be conceived.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first time sharing my fanfiction on a public forum! Constructive criticism and advice is greatly appreciated, as I'm brand new to all of this. :)


End file.
